FateStay Night Archer Encounter
by LongShotl
Summary: Its not hard to live an average life - eat, sleep, daydream, repeat. But toss a little magic in there with a careless attitude and you get... well, still a boring life: but when destiny knocks, a life beyond simple existence emerges for us all. A basic one-shot that was asked to be expanded.
1. Preface

Alright. If we're going do this, we need to clear something up right off the bat. There are ample things in this world that you don't understand and an ass-ton more that you will never understand. Chances are you wont be a billionaire, and you'll probably never find that "true love" or whatever the hell kids are told nowadays.

But that's okay. You see, that's what defines the difference between life and _living_. You're going to be a piece of crap some days, and others someone of value to society. Every now and then you'll forget that you're alive, and every few days you'll need to be reminded that you aren't special.

But that's okay. That's life, and the first step to truly living is to accept that.

This is me, taking that first step.

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><p><strong>I was asked by a number of people to continue the story, so this is me doing just that. The one-shot I originally wrote appears to have accumulated a lot of views and minor success, so I can only hope that I do you lot proud.<br>**


	2. A Hero's Journey Begins

I'm pretty average by definition: average family, average height, average looks… I'm seriously a little painfully average.

Actually, I just measured myself. I'm a little below average, so screw it. I'm pretty painfully me.

"Me" is a girl that doesn't do a lot after school and doesn't do a lot _during_ school. "Me" is a chick who's got a solid eight friends, a fetish for collecting crap, and a poor grasp of magic. I guess in that sense I'm a little unusual, but its hard to tell who knows magic and who doesn't in today's world. I heard someone in the hall the other day say there's some statistic suggesting about 60% of the world knows magic on some level; and yet, everyone insists on keeping it a secret. Whatever.

I can't say I literally _know_ magic – I've never actually picked up a specialty book or anything – but I _can_ do a thing or two that you probably can't. I can heighten my senses to nit-pick at details – seeing, smelling, touching, you name it. With a little concentration and a deep breath, I can hear a raccoon scurry in the neighbor's garbage at night. Sometimes if I'm lucky, a teacher will place a test's answer key on their desk in front of them and [seemingly] out of range of prying eyes: all I have to do is focus and squint. I'm sure it could actually be of use if I want it to be, and I'm positive it could be used by some squares out there for good or bad or whatever, but for now its helping me get through school. I get up, I go to school, I go home, and I do nothing. That's my schedule, day in and out. Pretty uninteresting if you ask me.

But I'm good at it, this nothing. I can cram a lot of crap into one day if I try hard enough, but the, that requires energy. Most of the time I pass off opportunities like a horse's tail swatting at flies: I couldn't care less.

There's something about opportunities that catch the eye. They light a spark in the heart, and sometimes can seriously take over. Some opportunities become lifelong dedications, and some flicker back out of sight, again like the flies. All I know is, well, hell… nothing much.

But you can't let an opportunity pass you by. Not when you've got the world at your feet.

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Things first changed on a late Tuesday night. My two brothers were home from college for a few weeks (don't ask me why) and Mom insisted that we all sit down to dinner together. Dad had the paper in front of him (again, I don't know why he does this at dinner – I'm pretty dang sure you're supposed to read the news in the morning) and my Mom had the tv on. My brothers weren't keen on conversation, so we sat there and stared at the poorly illuminated screen. Dad put down the papers when the news got serious.

You see, a few years back there was a pretty bad incident in town. I was too young to remember much of it, and it was a pretty fat mess. What I do remember is the massive move to rebuild and to "innovate the younger generation." Whenever its brought up, which it infrequently is, Dad puts the blame on the phone companies. It fits the notion of inspiring kids pretty well, since he ends the conversation every time with a "so when you move into construction since you're failing high school, you'll know not to repeat their mistakes" note. Kinda dick-ish of him if you ask me.

But tonight was different. People were falling all across town to some disease, and the doctors couldn't find a damn nickel on the bug. Not a thing! They pulled apart two unnamed victims to the illness, and even then they couldn't find the cause. That's what this segment is on – the valor of those two, the courage to allow the doctors to dissect their bodies. We're supposed to honor them now, like heroes or something. My second brother huffs, and my Dad folds the paper.

"What? Its not like they expected to find something. Those two died and that's a real stinker, but they're strangers to us. I don't see why we have to-"

I cut him off as I chomp unnecessarily at my broccoli. "Shut up, dickwad."

"Whoa, shots fired." It was my ever-so-slightly older brother who spoke. I glare at him from across the table, and he shrugs. "Just because we dont know someone doesn't mean they don't count for shit." Our eldest brother, the calm one with the glasses and stereotypical nerd demeanor, was the one to shut us both up. "You guys need to quit it. This is serious business, respect that."

My mom nods silently like she always does and always will, head bobbing obediently like the dog she is. Its here that my dad put down the paper. His tight eyes and ass glare at his second son. "Hiro, there is no need for you to speak with so little reguard. Do not speak when you do not know what you're talking about."

"But none of us know whats going on! Who are these reporters anyway? Its not like they understand whats going on – what was the actual cause of death, hmmm? Why don't they show the bodies from anyone? I get it with the dismantled people, but really? Come on, you have to admit that something fishy is going on here. Its clear we aren't getting the full story."  
>"I agree with you in that sense," our eldest brother again pipes up. "Mother Nature leaves a trail behind when working her magic on us. These are seemingly unassociated events leading to unassociated deaths, even my professors can't tie together a probable cause of all of this."<p>

"Wait, really?" He's going into biomedical something-or-other, I'd imagine the professors in the top university in Japan would catch wind of this situation and slap a label on it. He looks down at me through those damn glasses.

"Yeah. The disease is concentrated in our area only, so we can rule out the food supply as the cause. The freshwater also runs through to neighboring towns, but its not reaching them. It's not the air, since its not contained to a particular region on any means. The way illness works is similar to a mosquito; it leaves a trace or mark, something to signify where it came from." He cups his chin. "But here, nothing has been reported as a cause or significant chink in the armor, if I may use the expression. No one knows whats going on, or who will be impacted next."

"Well," Dad pulls at the pork with his knife. "This area has seen enough devastation. Whatever the cause is, I want it dealt with. We don't need any more crazy around these parts scaring away what little business and tourism we have, it's bad for the economy."

I think if he knew what was coming next, he would have rephrased himself a little bit.

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**As per always, reviews are sincerely appreciated.**


	3. Doors

What happened roughly fifteen years ago went down without a lot of fireworks – Mom and Dad keep saying that there was nothing leading to the gas pipe explosion. Nothing led to it, but about 76.3% of the people died? I don't quite get where the ".3" comes from since we're talking about people here, but that's a _lot_ of people. The explosion's epicenter was about a quarter mile in diameter alone, and the mess took out nearly the entire city. We're no Tokyo, but we hit the international headlines, and since then our city's been nothing but a curse mark on the world.

We live on the outskirts of town, just beyond reach of the blast. A lot of things nowadays are timelined based on that critical point for us – everything was either _before_ the blast or _after_. For some people, what happened before the pipeline went skyhigh faded away; a lot of us were so wrapped up in our own little worlds. For others… well, the 'after' didn't actually come. Suicide rates went skyhigh as well, and some said the funeral services were too slow to keep up with the pace.

I've been thinking about all of this since dinner last night. We _are_ getting close to the anniversary after all, and it's a sour thing to think about. Its death personified on a calendar, and what are we supposed to do about it? Look at the date and be totally okay with it? Oh no, we're supposed to talk about our feelings about something I barely experienced. Sure, like I'd sign up for that.

I can't stand calendars partly because of stupid things like this; all they are is reminders about the past. Reminders of lives that never breathed and all the monstrosities of devastation. Every now and then we have a holiday which cheers up the kids and gives the parents a reason to spend their money, but at the end of the day, the calendar's just a cycle like everything else. The world will turn no matter how many people die, and the death will continue, day in and day out.

"Hashimoto!"

I mean, what would those kids have sounded like? What kinds of lives were they gonna live?

"Hashimoto!"  
>I reluctantly turn from the window, head in hand to catch my boredom in an open palm. I rest my eyes briefly on the clock above my teacher's head and flicker back to him. "Yeah?"<br>"Class is over."

"Yeah." I heave my backpack over my shoulder (its not like I actually had anything out on my desk) and snap a peace sign at the man. In moments, I'm at the door.

I could practically see his body collapse a little as he sighed in frustration behind me. "Hashimoto, wait."

I do, but don't turn around – God, that would take a whole lot of effort that I don't have. Lets not do this right now, Mr. Watanabe.

"Hashimoto, you need to figure out what you're doing with your life. I've seen your problem, and you know it as well as I do." I turn ever so slightly, _daring_ him to keep going; he sees me sidestep in his direction, and hesitates under my glare.

If magic could shut a man up, we'd live in one _hell_ of a better world.

But he's such a fool. That's why I don't care for this class – its not that I don't like history, its decent enough, but the teacher… that's another story. He's a joke.

"You're problem is that you think you don't have the mental capacity. I know you do, there's not a doubt in my mind that you know what you can do." He picked up his chin and shifted his broad glasses further up the short bridge of his idiotic nose. "Give the act a rest, and give yourself some credit. Put your back into your schoolwork now, and doors can still open for you in the future. Its not too late for you." He steps closer to me and folds his stubborn arms across his broadening chest. How much weight has he gained in the last half-year? 10? No, twelve? I bet it's thirteen. I wonder what his beef is.

"Hashimoto, you have the potential to do something amazing with this world. Show us all that you're aren't another empty face."

I pause. Do I care, or do I not? That's the question of the goddammed year.

With a shrug, I yank my backpack higher up my shoulder. "Who's watching me? Besides, you've seen the person I am. There isn't much there." I cast a glance and, to much to my surprise, see a small smile on his face.

"You only say that because you haven't figured yourself out yet, and you aren't giving yourself the chance to figure yourself out." He turns around and pages through some papers on his desk before waltzing back over to me, half-assed. "Its not too late, Hashimoto. Everyone feels stuck at some point in their life, here's your chance to overcome it."

I stare at his extended hand; its pretty poetic, if you think about it. Him, my sensei, extending a hand to a fool like me. It's not a movie, Watanabe. Things don't just happen. Life isn't all that magical.

Yeah, it's pretty picturesque.

I raise my eyes to him.

And I walk out that door.

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**Starting to pick up steam. I just wanted you to know our little angel a little better.**

**As per always, I love those reviews! Remember, I'm doing this for you guys!**


	4. The Meeting

"Who are you? Who was that back there? What do you want from me? Where'd you come from? What the HELL is happening? Hey, answer me!"

He stands, indifferent to my words. His eyes seem to tear across the land in front of us, prying every detail from every object and engraving it in his mind; it's with an almost foxlike serenity that he reaches down silently to hoist me off my feet.

Yeah he's cute, but he's not cute enough to just do what he wants with me.

I slap him across his right cheek, but I think it hurt me more than it hurt him. His eyes flicker down to me for once, and he frowns as I shove both hands against his broad (and _fine_, might I add) chest. "And that was for…?"

"You don't just… _pick up_ someone!" I whine, shoving him as hard as I can; the unexpected force against his chest dislodges me from his grasp, and I tumble stupidly to the ground. My left hand still throbs from hitting his face, and I recoil, crawling backwards and over the pebbly beach.

_Wait, what am I doing? This guy's a… a, a monster! _He killed someone back there!The man sees the shock on my face and softens immediately, an unfortold compassion suddenly loosening his many muscles. I keep crawling away though, and I try to stand up and _run, _but I fall back down on my chin. He tries to advance again – arm stretched out, red sleeve, crimson like blood –

"DON'T you DARE touch me!" I scream, head suddenly light and fuzzy. He steps closer, and I scramble further and further back, my legs, hands, and ass getting scrapped by sea salt, shell fragments, and sharpened stones pounded away by the wrath of the ocean. The faint kindness in his eyes falls apart, and he glares at me, fists abruptly planted on his hips. "Now you're just being ridiculous. Get up and get over here."

"No! Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?"

"Who am I? I'm the guy who just saved your sorry life." He cocks his head to the side a little, a finely groomed eyebrow arched at me. I stop scrambling, but I stay dumbfoundly on the ground, heart racing uncontrollably. God, I can feel the sweat dripping down but I can't hear anything – not the crash of the waves, not the whistle of the wind – nothing but my blood pounding away, threatening to rupture my eardrums.

So the festering madness and the silence between us grows steadily; I can only imagine what I must look like right now. Probably like hell, especially compared to a guy like hi-

STOP IT. He just took me against my will, it doesn't matter how hot he is!

He sighs and drops to sit on his heels. He wisps his hands out to catch the red drapes before he settles down, and flings it out behind him – in a way, the little notion makes him seem remarkably regal.

I frown. "Are you going to answer my questions?"

"Maybe." His eyes are closed and his head is dipped a little low, but as he reaches to scratch his head, I can see a faint smile prying at his serious face.

"What do you want from me." I'm trying to play it off strong, and my question comes out more like an accusation than anything else, but my words don't change his body language. A few seconds meander past before he answers only loud enough so that its barely audible beyond my screaming blood.

"Nothing."

"Where are you from."

"What makes you think I'm not from around here?" He accuses, finally looking at me. I frown and kick my chin up a little. "No one in their right mind would wear something like… that here. You look like you're on your way to a comedy event or a renaissance fair."

He laughs and falls back on his butt, kicks out a leg, and lolls an arm over a knee: by the way he responded, its like we're sitting in his living room discussing the latest Ben Stiller movie.

"Nah, I'm not headed in either of those directions. Any other royal questions?"

"Who the hell are you?"

"I answered that one already."

"ALRIGHT," I throw up a hand in exasperation, "WHAT was that back there?!"

"That's the question of the day." He stares me down, and I finally notice his eyes are radiant, yet dull, and they emit a hazel-grey hue. We stare at each other, and I slap my hand against the ground. "So you wont answer me?"

"How do I answer a question, when I do not have the answer?"

"This is useless." I mumble, avoiding his eyes. I turn to watch the water in the bleak darkness, and he copies me. We sit as I steady myself. He sighs again, but I wont look at him. But I ask a final question.

"Why do you want to kill me?"

"Why would you ask that to the guy who just ran here to save your life? Besides, if I wanted to kill you, do you _really_ think we'd be sitting here, having this conversation right now?"

I shake my head and glare at him. "Murderers and serial killers are _madmen_. I don't know what to expect from one." Again, he cooks his head a little. His voice is elegant and smooth – exactly what you'd expect from a hot crazy. "You think I'm a killer?"

"I saw what you did to that guy back there."

"_What I did _was discharge his mana. I didn't kill him."

"Why."

"Because I'm not a killer." He stands up and offers me a hand. He looks up to the sky, and I watch the brilliance of his eyes twinkle in the starlight.

_How the hell can the stars reflect off this guys eyes? _

"Come. We've wasted enough time. We need to get moving."

"I don't need your help!" I spit violently. I stand up on my own, and he looks down at me like I'm nothing more than a stray cat that's wandered into his path. We stare briefly, the fire in me suddenly nothing compared to the sternness in him, and I slap his hand away before walking on my own.

I make it about twenty steps before he yells at me: I can tell I'm trying his patients - his voice cracks. "Do you know what happened back there?" He accuses, a boiling rage in his voice. I flip the bird and keep marching.

"_LOOK_. AT. ME."

I wont.

"Get back here!"

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A dark wisp collects in front of me, and he appears out of thin air – again, his hands are on his hips, but now he glares furiously. "Look, _idiot_ - if I wanted to do this, I'd do it by force. But right now there are bigger things that you need to worry about then your pride."

"Says the renaissance fair man."

"Yes, says me!" His head whips to the side before he narrows both eyes back on me. "Listen, I get that you don't understand what is happening, but that's not important. What _is_ is that you cooperate and that we keep moving. Its fastest if I just carry you."

"I can walk, thank you very much."

"What part about moving fast do you not get!"

"But what do those… things want from me?"

"Nothing, other than killing you." For the last time, he opens a hand to me. "If I have to do something I don't want to save your measly life, then I simply wont do it. But if you are willing to cooperate, then we can make sure you see sunrise."

For the first time tonight, I can sense a genuine honesty in his words. I reach out tentatively, accepting his hand, but my fingers linger just inches away for one last question.

"Who _are_ you?"  
>He smiles: its the most dashing thing I've seen in months. Whether or not he's a good person is yet to be determined, but he's not a bad human being… not yet, not as far as I can tell.<p>

He reaches between us, cupping my hand in his.

"Call me Archer."

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**This was the original one-shot. I'll leave it be until it kinda glides into its proper place**


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